As we were leaving hour 9 of a weekend-long Tantric philosophy and asana workshop, as we were happily babbling our way to the car, Jen commented on how very many hours we devote to this practice on a regular, daily, weekly basis. Is there anything else under the sun we would choose to do for 12 hours a weekend?
All assembled marveled at how happy we are to do so, to sit for hours on end, practice for hours on end, learn and grow and expand in good company for hours on end. We're such yoga dorks and we couldn't be happier.
It's like a sweet, sweet dream.
As a lifelong nerd, it's so, so, so deeply satisfying to indulge this side of myself, all the while balancing it out with a physical practice that makes it REAL. It's not an academic pursuit, it's not a purely intellectual exercise. It's taking the beautiful stories we hear and giving them life through the practice, feeling them on our mats, becoming Arjuna or Kali or Saraswati, experiencing the story at a muscular, cellular level, being heroes, goddesses, gods.
It's fucking fantastic.
One of the things I love best about my teachers is that they are real people. They are deeply devoted to yoga, to study, to learning, to topics that might seem esoteric or far-fetched or loony. But they're real people, with lives and kids and their own messes. They make silly puns and goofy pop culture references, they swear, they make me laugh.
They are scholars without being dweebs.
And that pretty much kicks every kind of ass there is.
I am just so inspired by this weekend. I'm already 9 hours in and already sad that only 3 hours remain. I could do this for weeks at a time. And how not to? How not to feel this bone-deep intoxication, this excitement at being invited repeatedly not just to be successful, but to be GREAT.
Like I said, fucking fantastic.
With so much gratitude to my teachers, XX.